


The Least of His Children

by MsBarrows



Series: Young Alistair [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adventure, Drama, Gen, Minor Character Death, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:44:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>After I finished writing The Golem Doll, I found myself thinking of another Alistair-ism that I've always wondered about the story behind. Young Alistair promptly started poking me in the back with an idea for it. This story is set in the same fiction as the Golem Doll, several years after it, but can be read independently of it.</b></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. A Brilliant Idea

**Author's Note:**

> **After I finished writing The Golem Doll, I found myself thinking of another Alistair-ism that I've always wondered about the story behind. Young Alistair promptly started poking me in the back with an idea for it. This story is set in the same fiction as the Golem Doll, several years after it, but can be read independently of it.**

**After I finished writing The Golem Doll, I found myself thinking of another Alistair-ism that I've always wondered about the story behind. Young Alistair promptly started poking me in the back with an idea for it. This story is set in the same fiction as the Golem Doll, several years after it, but can be read independently of it.**

* * *

" _All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,_  
 _From the lowest slaves_  
 _To the highest kings._  
 _Those who bring harm_  
 _Without provocation to the least of His children_  
 _Are hated and accursed by the Maker."_

 _\- Canticle of Transfigurations_

* * *

Alistair knew it was a bad idea, but it sounded like so much fun. The weather had been uniformly hot and sticky for weeks; the stable boys were stripping down as much as they dared to do their work, sweat pouring off them as they struggled to muck out the stalls and kennels, change the bedding straw, haul achingly heavy bucket after achingly heavy bucket of water for the horses and hounds.

They stripped right down to their smalls one day, only to be roared at by the stable master when he came in unexpectedly and caught them at it; it wasn't decent of them, and what would have happened if it had been one of the ladies of the castle who'd walked in on them dressed like that, and so on, and so forth. The stable master would ideally have preferred to see them remain dressed in the long pants and sleeveless thigh-length tunics that were their usual summer uniform, but had to grudgingly admit that with this current hot spell, they'd all be keeling over from the heat instead of completing their necessary work. So he'd compromised, allowing the boys to cut down pairs of their older, more badly-worn and muck-stained pants into short pants to wear for the duration of the heat-wave, their tunics temporarily abandoned.

He'd also had strong words to say about wasted time and wasted water the day he caught several of them having a water fight near the well. Alistair was glad he hadn't been part of that; as deliciously cooling as it sounded like it had been, the extra hours of work the boys involved had all earned didn't sound in the least enjoyable, especially in this weather.

But a group of the boys had a rare half-day off this afternoon, and Simon had suggested that they sneak down to the lake and go boating. His father was a fisherman; he knew how to handle a boat, he said. And out on the lake it would be much cooler, and they might even be able to find some place safe to swim. Or at least safe enough to wade around and play for a while in the shallows; water that was deep enough to _really_ swim in was water deep enough for the more dangerous denizens of the lake to swim in as well.

The decision having been arrived at that sneaking off for a boating trip was a most excellent idea, everyone turned and looked expectantly at Alistair.

He'd never been quite sure how it had developed that _he_ was the leader of the group when it came to these sorts of things. It wasn't like he was the biggest or strongest of them or anything – quite the opposite, in fact, he was small for his age and skinny as a rail – and it wasn't due to any particular popularity on his part. When he'd first been made a stable boy, the other boys had _hated_ him.

They'd tolerated his presence in the stables when he was just the quiet child who lived in one of the stalls, the one who'd once been rumoured to be the Arl's bastard son. He supposed back then they'd lumped him in with the other young things in the stables; the foals and yearlings and mabari puppies and so forth. They'd certainly seen to the changing of the straw in his stall, and the supplying of food for his brunch and dinner, with the same silent efficiency they treated the other animals with.

And then he'd been made one of them, moved from his solitary stall to the small dormitory off the hay loft where most of them lived. The stable boys had made their displeasure about his addition to their numbers felt very early on; he quickly got used to having to check his pallet in the loft for nasty additions before climbing into it, and slept in his clothes so they couldn't be stolen and hidden or befouled.

He'd been too young and too small to do a proper day's work; it had taken both hands and a lot of effort to haul even a single half-bucket of water from the well, or grain from the feed bins, while bigger, faster, and much more grown-up boys hurried around with a full bucket in each hand. Pitchforks were impossibly big and far too heavy for him to use, and forget about trying to lift and push a manure-laden barrow. He couldn't even be given many of the lighter chores, like currying the horses, since he only stood about belly-high on them.

The stable master had muttered and grumbled and complained under his breath about the decisions of the Arl, and eventually found things that Alistair could manage to do. He'd cleaned and polished tack until his hands seemed permanently coloured by the dark brown wax, the smell of the conditioning oils always clinging to him even when freshly bathed, and picked burrs from dog's coats, and measured out grain into feed pails, and ran messages, and scrubbed the cobblestones of the small courtyard the stables curled around until they were nearly clean enough to eat off of.

And, eventually, he'd learned to use his wits to outsmart many of the tricks the other stable boys liked to play on him, and after successfully pulling off some pranks that got several of the more persistently nasty of them in trouble, they abruptly started accepting that he was one of them. Much to his surprise, they'd also started turning to him when it came to planning pranks and illicit trips – he'd somehow gotten a reputation for having a quick wit and a calm head.

"We'll have to sneak out in small groups," he said. "You know the stable master doesn't like us all going down to the town at once. Not after that last time."

That brought a chorus of groans and a lot of nods of agreement, the last time having involved a market day back in the spring, too many sweets, and an argument with a group of town boys that had led to several knocked-over stalls and a severe talking-to from the stable master. He'd made them work off the cost of the damage done, and forbidden them the town for weeks afterwards.

Alistair frowned in thought for a moment, then started pointing at people and giving them orders. "Simon, you and Peatrick go down together, if the guards ask you can say you're taking him along to lunch with your family because he's sweet on your sister. Jory, say you're visiting the smith to pick up an order of new buckles. Tam and Leon, you want to buy sweets at the store. And Jase, you're on your way to pray at the Chantry, and yes, you really _can_ stop and do that first," he told the pious boy.

"Simon, where would be a good place near the docks where we can meet up without anyone noticing us?" he asked, turning to look enquiring at the boy, the oldest and tallest of their particular group.

"That bit in behind the smithy, where the big tree is; it's all overgrown and shady, and people walking by have no reason to look back that way, if we're quiet."

The boys nodded. They all trooped off to the dining hall to have lunch, then slipped off down to town in their ones and twos, Alistair leaving last of all, skipping along like he didn't have a care in the world.

"An' where are you off to, young trouble?" one of the guards called after him as he started across the bridge.

Alistair turned, and gave the man a cheerful smile, walking backwards a few steps as he talked. "I'm supposed to meet my friends Tam and Leon at the store, to buy candy," he said, making his eyes as big and innocent as he could.

The guard smiled. "You'd better run then, they're well ahead of you. They'll buy out all the sweets before you can get there."

"They better not!" Alistair exclaimed, and turning away, sprinted off along the bridge, concealing a smile that wanted to be a wide grin as he did. The one benefit of his small frame; all the guards tended to forget his real age and treat him as if he was still a little kid of six or seven, not nine-going-on-ten.

The others were all waiting quietly in the shadowed corner behind the tree, except for Simon and Jase. The latter showed up a few minutes after Alistair did, a quiet smile on his face, and joined them in the shade. No one teased him about his visit to the chantry; for all his pious ways, he was a demon in a fist-fight.

Simon finally hustled up a few minutes later, looking breathless. "I've got the boat," he said. "Follow me."

He led them into the shadowed recesses among the piles holding houses up above the lake water. It was dark down there, and smelly, the odour an unpleasant combination of rotting fish, water weed, and chamber pots. The boys all held their noses – manure and horse piss was one thing, what came down from the garderobes in the houses above was another. They were all relieved when Simon led them into the cleaner waters along the lake side of the huddle of houses, to a boat roped to one pile.

Simon and Peatrick steadied the boat while the younger boys climbed in, everyone taking the time to swish their feet around in the cleaner water offshore before stepping in; they didn't want any of _that_ joining them in the boat. Once the smaller boys were all settled, Simon and Peatrick climbed in as well, Peatrick shoving against the pile to start them moving away from shore while Simon unshipped the oars and rowed them away from town as quietly as he could.

They headed west first, quickly putting a fold of cliff between them and the town, eventually passing under the castle bridge and out into more open waters beyond the end of the small steep-sided island that the castle sprawled over top of like a sun-bathing dragon.

As they passed out of the island's wind shadow, the first lake breezes ruffled the hair of the boys, making them all sit up and grin.

"Not bad, isn't it?" Simon asked with a grin. "If it gets a bit stronger, we can try raising the sail and see if I remember how to tack. Peatrick, your turn on the oars, my arms are getting tired."

This drew hoots from some of the younger boys, since Simon always made such a big thing about how much he could fork or haul.

"Hey, it's harder work then it looks, you lot! And it doesn't use all the same muscles as stable work does."

"He's right, you know," Peatrick said, frowning as he concentrated on pulling the oars in tandem, without too much splashing about. "This is hard work."

Of course that meant that all of the other boys wanted to try their hands at rowing as well. Simon and Peatrick were happy to oblige them, and they were a good hour out from town before they tired of rowing and decided it was time to start looking for one of these fabled safe spots to get out and splash around.

Simon frowned at the cliffs still looming overhead along the shore. "We won't find any good swimming here," he said firmly. "It's all deeps in this area. But there's supposed to be some rocky islands out into the lake a bit, with sandy shallows around 'em. If we can get the sail up, I think the breeze is strong enough to push us now."

This suggestion met with hearty agreement from everyone, as by now they'd all had enough experience handling the oars to firmly move that particular activity from "play" to "work". With Simon giving instructions about loosing or tightening lines, and a lot of very cautious scrambling about, they got the small mast properly seated and the sail raised. One oar was stowed, and the other moved to the back, to act as a tiller.

It took Simon a few tries to get the hang of tacking – it had been years since he'd last been out on the lake with his father, and his father and older brother had always handled all the tricky bits, something he hadn't told the other boys – but after a while they were progressing in reasonably good fashion out into the open lake, the boys whooping and hollering, sometimes leaning over the side so they could flick handfuls of water at each other.

The rocky islets eventually came into view, further out from shore then Simon had thought they'd be, but still close enough that they should be able to reach them and spend an hour or so playing there before they'd have to start heading back. They might be a _little_ late returning the boat and getting back up to the castle, but since he hadn't asked before borrowing it anyway, that wasn't going to make things any the worse for them. Besides, he planned to just leave it tied up somewhere near town where someone could find it again, not return it to the dock he'd taken it from; with luck, no one would ever figure out where the boat had been for half a day, nor who had taken it.

Eventually they reached the vicinity of the islets, and then it was just a matter of finding one with suitably shallow water around it. The sandy bottom shelved up into sight well out from them, but it wasn't until they'd penetrated well into the cluster that it finally grew shallow enough for wading. They'd lowered the sail again and were using oar-power by then, and happily jumped overboard, dragging the boat over to one of the clusters of rocks and wedging the front end securely up on shore.

After that they raced around in the shallows, screaming and having water fights, falling over backwards with tremendous splashes, and generally having a lot of fun.

Alistair stopped his rampaging around for a moment to grin happily at Simon. "This," he said, "Was a _brilliant_ idea!"

Simon grinned back in response.


	2. A Brilliant Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Teagan! What are you doing here?" Arl Eamon asked happily as he saw who had just ridden into the courtyard.

"Teagan! What are you doing here?" Arl Eamon asked happily as he saw who had just ridden into the courtyard.

"Hello, brother," Teagan answered, sliding off his horse and handing the reins off to a stable boy before walking over to exchange a warm hug with his brother. "I've had some unexpected business come up in Highever, and thought I should drop in and say hello while I was passing."

"Good, good – I'd never have forgiven you if you'd been in the area and hadn't, you know. I hope you're able to stay for dinner? Or is your business urgent enough that you need to be on the road again as quickly as you can?"

Teagan smiled. "No, it's not that urgent – I can stay the night. I'm in no rush – certainly not in this heat!"

"Excellent! I'll have the Seneschal prepare your usual room, then. Come, let's go on in and find some place cooler to sit down and talk."

Teagan smiled, and followed his brother indoors.

* * *

Teagan was doubly glad that he'd elected to stay the night at Redcliffe Castle when a storm rolled in from the southeast late that afternoon, enormous dark grey thunderheads drifting in from the Hinterlands. At least the storm also brought a good strong wind with it, and being out of the south, it was a cooling wind. For the first time in weeks the temperatures dropped down into a comfortable range.

"If you don't mind, I think I'll go check on my horse," Teagan said as the pleasant family dinner with Eamon and Isolde drew to a close. "She's a recent purchase, and my stable master tells me she gets nervous during thunderstorms; I'll want to be sure your stable master knows to keep an eye on her tonight."

"Of course," Eamon agreed, nodding. "Join me in my study when you return; we can have brandies over a game of chess before retiring for the night."

Teagan nodded and rose to his feet, and headed off to the stables.

He found the stable master easily enough; the man was standing in one of the aisles, talking to a young man – one of the senior stable boys, at a guess – with an annoyed scowl on his face, and Teagan paused to allow the man to finish whatever his current business was before bothering him with his own request.

"...Tam, Jory, and Alistair," the stable boy finished counting out names on his fingers.

Teagan's attention was caught by the final name. Alistair – that was Maric's bastard, wasn't it? He'd never quite approved of the fact that the lad was being employed as a stable boy by his brother – surely Eamon and Maric could have found some more appropriate placement for the him, fostered him out somewhere perhaps – but it wasn't like Eamon had ever asked _his_ opinion of the matter, and unlike Eamon, he himself was not a particular confidant of the King.

"And the gate guards are sure that they were last seen going down into town?" the stable master asked, scowl deepening.

"Yes, sir," the stable boy answered. "I sent one of the boys down to find them when they didn't turn up for supper, and he says he couldn't find any sign of them anywhere. One of the chantry sisters remembered seeing Jase there some time in the early afternoon, but apart from that no one's seen hide nor hair of them since they left the castle, sir."

Just then the stable master happened to glance Teagan's way, and quickly straightened, stepping over to speak with him. "Bann Teagan," he said. "Here about that lovely mare of yours, I take it?"

Teagan smiled. "Just so," he agreed. "My stable master had mentioned to me that she gets nervous during thunderstorms..." he trailed off as thunder from the rapidly approaching storm rumbled loudly enough to momentarily drown out their words. "I wanted to be sure you were aware that she might need extra care tonight."

The stable master nodded. "I'll have one of my boys bed down nearby to keep an eye on her, sir."

Teagan nodded. "Thank you. Though it sounds like you're shorthanded at the moment?"

A momentarily flicker of irritation crossed the man's face. Knowing that knowledge of a problem in the stables had already passed beyond it couldn't be making the man feel particularly happy. "Unfortunately, yes," he admitted. "A group of the stable boys had a half day off this afternoon, and have failed to return from it. They should have been back two hours ago. Bunch of young mischief-makers; I have little doubt I'll have someone showing up on my doorstep soon to complain about whatever it is they've gotten up to that's kept them out this late."

Teagan nodded, smiled understandingly. "I assume when they do return, it will be to all the messiest, smelliest, most tedious jobs you can find for them to do?"

The stable master grinned. "Oh yes. Not that _that_ ever seems to keep them tamed down for long. Was there anything else you needed, my lord?"

"No, no, that was all. Thank you," Teagan said, and turned to head back to the castle.

He paused in the courtyard to admire the oncoming storm, the thunderheads towering over the castle's curtain wall in all their dark glory, thin threads of lightning visibly flickering between the stacked layers of cloud, the rumbles of thunder following long minutes later.

He was about to turn away and go back inside the castle when a disturbance at the gate caught his attention; a red-faced young man, with a shock of thick black hair and a bristling beard, arguing with the gate guard.

"I know it's sodding late! I've spent the last three hours looking for my boat, and only just found someone who'd seen it – and according to _him_ , there was a group of boys rowing it away. Wasn't any of our lads from down to the town, so it must be some of your boys up here!"

Teagan frowned and walked over, interrupting the guard who was busily denying the man entry to the castle. "Excuse me," he said. "Did you say a group of boys were seen going off in a boat?"

The man turned to look at him, face set in an angry scowl, then took in the fineness of Teagan's clothing. His expression went through an almost comical change of expression as he paled, then dipped his head, big hands closing on the hem of his tunic and twisting it as nervously as a boy being called up before his father "Beg pardon, sir," he said. "Yes, my boat went missing this afternoon, and it seems like a group of boys was seen rowing off with it."

Teagan nodded. "Come with me," he told the man, and turned and walked back to the stables, the man trotting at his heels, looking decidedly ill at ease. Teagan quickly relocated the stable master.

"I may have found word of your missing boys," he told him, and turned to the man. "Tell him what you just told me," he prompted kindly.

The fisherman nodded, and repeated his tale again. The stable master's scowl deepened, and Teagan was sure the man would of been openly swearing if not for his own presence. "And you say they've not returned?" the stable master asked.

"No, not unless they came back while I was on my way up here. No one has seen them since they rowed off – or my boat!" the fisherman said in an aggrieved voice. "I wouldn't even have known it was missing, except I saw the storm that's coming in and thought I'd better go beach it; getting knocked about by wind and waves wouldn't have done it any good."

"So where _are_ the boys, then?" Teagan suddenly asked, feeling the first stirrings of real alarm.

A particularly loud peal of thunder sounded, followed by the sudden hiss of rain.

"Still out on the lake, most likely," the fisherman said, looking grim.

"In this storm," the stable master said slowly, looking, to his credit, distressed by the thought.

* * *

They splashed and ran around and had water fights until they were all tired, then climbed up on the rock islet their boat was beached on to rest for a while before heading back, the group of them lying in a circle with their heads together, looking up at the sky and talking and laughing, enjoying the comparative coolness out here on the lake.

"We should have brought food," Tam said. "I'm _starving_ ,"

"Oh, yeah, a picnic out here would be _brilliant_ ," Peatrick agreed. "We'll have to do that next time."

All of them agreed, all of them having enjoyed their illicit outing on the lake enough that they wanted there to _be_ a next time.

"We should probably head back," Simon said. "At least it'll be faster going in then coming out, the wind will be at our backs so we won't have to tack. Running before the wind is the _best_ , it feels like what flying must be like," he said enthusiastically.

They pushed the boat back out and climbed back in, inexpertly raising the sail again, and started back towards the distant line of the shore, the castle and town looking all hazy from this far out.

"Oh, look at that!" Tam exclaimed, pointing towards the shore. "There's a storm coming in."

"What?" Simon asked apprehensively, and squinted toward the horizon. Sure enough, he could make out a thin line of dark clouds beyond the paler line of the cliffs. He frowned worriedly. Being out on the lake in a storm – that was _dangerous_. Men died when they were storm-caught too far from shore. But they were making good time, the steady breeze pushing them at a good pace back towards shore. They should be able to beat it in, with a good margin to spare.

They were halfway back when the breeze faltered, then died. For a moment the boat coasted onwards, already loosing momentum as the water dragged at its hull, the sail hanging slackly without any breeze to fill it. And then the wind sprang up again, a strong one, _away_ from shore. The sail snapped noisily in the gusty air, the small boat heeling sharply over for a moment before it swung and straightened, boom swinging from one side to another in a sudden movement that by the Maker's own luck managed to miss braining anyone.

Simon cursed, and hauled on the oar-rudder, trying to turn the boat back to shore, hoping he could manage to tack in rather then being pushed further out. But the wind was pushing strongly enough that the boat didn't _want_ to turn; instead he found himself scudding across the lake at an angle, heading generally eastwards but still being pushed north. There must be _some_ way to force the boat further around, to get it turned into the wind, but... he didn't know it.

"Everyone all right?" Alistair was asking.

"I'm going to have bruised ribs from _someone's_ elbow landing right on them, but yeah, I'm all right," Leon answered, the other boys chiming in to indicate that they, too, while variously bruised and a little shaken by the abrupt change of direction, were all okay.

"What's happened?" Alistair asked, looking enquiringly at Simon.

"Storm made the wind change," he said, tersely. "I don't think I can turn the boat back to shore," he added reluctantly after a brief pause.

"Can we get back to those rock islands?" Alistair asked, clearly already appreciating what that meant; that they were stuck out here, with a storm coming on.

Simon considered the angles in his head. They'd been south of the islands, now they were moving east, if they headed back west... but no, they weren't moving straight east, he was pointed east but they were being pushed rapidly north as well... he glanced over his shoulder, to the still dimly visible rocky islets, judging their relative movement and the distances involved. Too far, much too far already. "No," he said, striving to remain calm. "Even if we turned now, we'd miss them, pass to the north."

"Anything off this way we can try to reach, then?" Alistair asked, still managing to sound calm, considering their options.

"I... don't know," Simon reluctantly admitted. "Maybe. There's supposed to be another shallows northeast of the castle somewhere – big one, mucky bottom, good for bottom fish and clams and stuff depending on how deep the water's running. But I don't know where it is, or if it has parts above water."

"Well, we'll just have to keep our eyes open, then," Alistair said calmly, and set about detailing the others to keep watch in all directions for anything that might be a place to aim for. It gave them something to think about; something to stop them from realizing just how much danger they might be in.

* * *

Eamon frowned as Teagan entered his study with the stable master and another man – a fisherman, by the look of him – following behind him. Teagan looked worried about something.

"Is something wrong, Teagan?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Teagan said, and the three of them quickly filled him in on the story; the missing stable boys, the missing boat. The likelihood that the boys were still somewhere out on the lake in this storm.

He didn't understand why Teagan was concerned about a pack of missing boys at first; not until the stable master rattled off the names of them all – not that Eamon had the faintest idea who any of them were – at least not until the man mentioned the name _Alistair._ Drat the brat, he would go and get himself into trouble of some kind.

"Well, I don't see that there's anything we can do about it," Eamon said. "Either they'll turn up, or they won't."

The fisherman nodded agreement. "More likely not," he said sadly, though probably with more sadness over the possible fate of his boat then the possible fate of the boys. "Not out in this storm, not with none of them knowing how to handle a boat proper."

The stable master frowned. "One of them might. Simon is Joram's youngest boy."

"Joram? I know him," the fisherman said, nodding, and looked thoughtful. "They might have a chance then, if they manage not to capsize, though where they'll end up is anyone's guess; storm this big, they could end up being pushed all the way down the lake, and that's more then a few miles."

"Well, thank you for bringing this matter to my attention," Eamon said. "I'll have to take thought on what we can do."

He said it in a way that was clearly a dismissal for the two men. They both bowed and withdrew.

"Come, Teagan, shall we game?" Eamon asked, gesturing toward the nearby chess table, all the pieces carefully set up in gleaming rows.

"Game? While young Alistair is lost on the lake?" Teagan asked, sounding surprised.

Eamon glanced at his brother, saw the concerned frown on his face, and realized he'd dismissed the fate of the boys too quickly; Teagan _would_ go and take an interest in the fate of Maric's curséd by-blow... and would undoubtedly think poorly of him if he made it clear just how little he cared about the fate of a pack of stable boys, Maric's bastard in their midst or no.

"There is nothing we can do about it tonight," he pointed out calmly. "No one can search the lake until this storm has passed."

"You're right," Teagan reluctantly agreed. "Still, I feel like I should be doing _something_..." he said, and paused. "I'm sorry, brother, but do you mind if I pass on the game for tonight? Even if it doesn't accomplish anything particularly useful right away, I'd like to go down to the village and talk to that boy Simon's father; he should be told anyway, and he might have some idea of where the boys could have headed to."

"Of course, of course," Eamon said with false tranquillity, sinking into a chair. "I'd join you but my going out in a storm like this would disagree with my old bones – and my young wife," he added, eyes twinkling.

"Thank you, brother," Teagan said, with a nod, and exited the room.

Damn, thought Eamon. And he'd so been looking forward to a quiet evening in his brother's company.

* * *

By the time the rain reached them, the air was already cold enough to have the boys regretting the brevity of their clothing. The rain made it worse, a torrential downpour that narrowed their circle of vision to almost nothing, while the wind-whipped waves gave the boat an alarming rocking motion that soon had several of them turning green.

Simon tried to warn them that they couldn't all hang over the same side when they needed to vomit; the boat was leaning dangerously over to one side. Lost in the misery of their sea-sickness, they didn't hear him. Alistair did, and squirmed over and physically dragged a couple of the boys away from the rail, getting the load more evenly distributed.

Simon was beginning to think things couldn't possible get any worse when, of course, they did; hail joined the rain, landing with stinging force on bare skin. Only the size of barley grains at first, they quickly coated every reasonably flat surface with a thin layer of icy pellets, more of them sloshing around in the bilges. The temperature dropped further, everyone shivering and complaining bitterly of the cold, the wet, the tossing, the sea-sickness. Then the hailstones got larger, and larger yet again, until it was like being pelted with handfuls of gravel and the occasional small rock, hard enough to raise bruises.

The wind gusted, changing direction abruptly, and the boat heeled hard over again, shipping a good-sized bit of water before it straightened again as the wind steadied. The extra weight made the boat sink lower in the water, loosing way and beginning to ship more water as the taller waves broke over the sides.

"Bail! We've got to bail!" Simon shouted. Peatrick found the greased leather bucket stowed in the bow for the purpose, and began scooping up and tipping water over the side, but it was clear that one single bucket wasn't going to be enough.

Simon thought Alistair had gone mad for a moment when he saw the boy skinning out of his pants, until he knotted the leg-ends together and, grasping the waistband in both hands, started using it as a second, crude scoop. Jase and Jory, seeing what he was doing, did the same, and between the four of them managed to begin making headway on bailing out the water.

Simon found himself laughing. It was all just too crazy; the storm, the hail, the naked boys frantically using their _pants_ as buckets...

Alistair looked up and grinned at him, a fierce look with as much determination and fear in it as humour. " _Brilliant_ idea," he called out sourly, teeth chattering.

Simon grinned back, then felt a sudden sharp pain as something struck his head, and everything went black.

* * *

Alistair felt his mouth drop open in shock. One moment Simon had been grinning back at him, the next he was fallen over face down, a hailstone the size of a grown man's fist awash in the water around his motionless form. For a moment all he could do was stare, unable to believe what had happened.

" _Simon_!" he shouted, dropping his improvised bucket in the bilges to crawl over and lift the other boy's face out of the water. A huge bruise was already forming at one temple and he was limp as a dead fish.

Peatrick splashed up beside him. "Is he all right?" he asked, sounding scared.

"I... don't think so," Alistair said, then gasped as another vagrant gust of wind sent the boat heeling over again, throwing them all to one side. The weight shift made it tilt over even further, and then just like that, the boat capsized entirely, dumping them all unceremoniously into the lake.


	3. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teagan dug an oilcloth cloak out of his belongings before heading out to the stables yet again, this time to ask the stable master about where Simon's father might be found. To his pleasure, he was just in time to intercept the man, about to head down to the town on the self-same errand, accompanied by the young fisherman. Teagan quickly joined the pair.

Teagan dug an oilcloth cloak out of his belongings before heading out to the stables yet again, this time to ask the stable master about where Simon's father might be found. To his pleasure, he was just in time to intercept the man, about to head down to the town on the self-same errand, accompanied by the young fisherman. Teagan quickly joined the pair.

"I don't believe I learned your names," he said hesitantly as they crossed the bridge together.

"Matthew, my lord," the stable master answered calmly.

"Kelly," the fisherman said nervously. "My lord."

"Just plain 'Teagan' will do, I think – no need to stand on formalities at a time like this."

"Yes, my lord," the stable master said.

Teagan concealed a smile for a moment, then frowned as they turned down hill towards the town. "How long is this storm likely to last?"

Kelly shrugged. "Overnight, at least... might slacken off before morning, if we're lucky."

They were on the final stretch down to town when the hail started. They picked up their pace, hurrying down the last of the slope, Matthew and Teagan following close on Kelly's heels as he lead the way to Joram's house.

The old fisherman was surprised to have three people come knocking on his door in the middle of such a ferocious storm, and hurriedly let them in. He recognized Matthew and Kelly, of course, but gave Teagan a puzzled look, wondering who the third man could be.

Matthew glanced back and forth between the two, and realized some introductions were likely in order. "This is Bann Teagan, the Arl's younger brother," he told Joram.

Joram blinked, stunned. He started to bow and stammer out a greeting, but Teagan held up on hand, stopping him. "Please, for tonight ignore that I am a Bann. We have come bearing distressing news, I'm afraid. Matthew, perhaps it would be best for you to explain...?"

Matthew nodded, and quickly explained to Joram the reason for their visit.

Joram went pale, and shook his head. "Out on the lake, in _this_..."

"We can't give up hope yet," Teagan pointed out. "There is some chance, however small, that the boys were already somewhere safe when the storm rolled in, or that your son Simon's seamanship will be enough to see them through it. I think we should assume they are living, until we find..." he paused, thinking that 'their bodies' was not a terribly kind phrase to use in front of a distressed parent. "Until we find evidence to the contrary."

Joram nodded, sighed. "Aye. Well, we'll need to get men organized to start a search as soon as it's light enough tomorrow – assuming this storm blows over by then. And think about where they might have gone," he said. "I'll send my boy around to get a few of the others over here..." he said distractedly, hurrying over to a doorway and leaning through it. "Rolf! Come here, I need you. Annie, put the kettle on, we've got guests here, and will have more soon."

Rolf was duly given a list of names by both his father and Kelly, and dashed out the door, a cloak held tented over his head to protect him from the continuing hailstones.

Joram's wife, Annie, bustled into the room a few minutes later with a tray of tea things, which she almost dropped to the floor in her surprise at seeing a nobleman seated with her husband. Once the tray had been safely seen to the table, Joram went aside with her to tell her about Simon. She turned white as a sheet, then drew a drop breath. "We'll need more tea," she said firmly. "And food. And..." she turned and left the room, muttering distractedly to herself.

The house quickly turned into a veritable beehive of activity. Within an astonishingly short time, the front room was packed with an assortment of fishermen of all ages, and various females were popping in and out of the kitchen, brewing gallons of tea and preparing mountains of food that the men snacked on while they pored over maps and argued over where the boys might have gone. The general consensus was that they'd probably gone out looking for some place to escape the heat, and given the direction they'd last been seen heading – west – there were thankfully very few reasonable options; a narrow stone shingle some two hours sail along the coast, a sand spit running off from the north side of the castle island, and a cluster of rocky islets some distance to the northwest. Nothing else was in reach of a group of boys that knew they needed to be back before nightfall.

Teagan couldn't really follow much of the talk after that – it was all about wind directions and water currents, close hauled and reaches and running, heeling and scudding and broaching. Broaching must be something bad, Teagan judged by the brief silence and the furtive glances towards the kitchen after someone used the term.

"Would your boy have known to try a sea anchor?" one of the older fishermen asked.

Joram shook his head. "I don't think so. He only went out maybe a half-dozen times with me and Rolf, and that was all in fine weather. He never was very interested in being a fisherman."

Eventually the men were talked out. Some headed home through the continuing downpour – the hail, for a mercy, had finally let up – while others settled down wherever they happened to be sitting, arms crossed and eyes closed, catching short naps. Teagan considered returning to the castle to get some sleep himself, then decided that if he did so, there was a more then reasonable chance the fishermen would 'forget' to let him know when they were setting out.

He settled back in his seat and tried the arms-crossed position of the fishermen, wondering how they managed to doze in such an uncomfortable looking position. And dropped right off into an uneasy doze within minutes.

* * *

When the boat went over, Alistair's first thought had been that they were all dead, or as good as.

He didn't even know if any of them except himself knew how to swim; he was only lucky enough to know how to because of an overnight trip with one of the grooms the summer before, to deliver some mares in foal to one of the outlying farms. Coming back, the groom had insisted on taking a break where the road ran alongside the river for a while. He'd been amused at Alistair's astonishment when he'd stripped down to his smalls and waded out into the water, and given him a swimming lesson on the spot.

Of course, swimming in a comparatively placid river and in a storm-tossed deep lake were two entirely different things.

He looked around, first spotting the capsized hull of the boat off to one side, and in the other direction, Peatrick, looking frightened, floating on his back with one arm holding Simon's limp body in front of him, head above water. A choking sound made Alistair turn and look behind him. Tam, upright in the water with just his face above the surface, eyes wide and frightened, mouth gaping like a fish. Even as he watched, a wave broke over Tam's face, filling his mouth with water, and he choked again.

Alistair kicked closer, and seeing nothing else he could grab, grabbed him by the hair, hauling him further out of the water. Of course, pulling _up_ pushed himself _down_ , and for a frightening moment he was submerged again. Then he felt Tam jerk and something knocked his arm loose. He surfaced again to find Tam managing to swim, at least well enough to keep his own head above water. He tapped his shoulder to get Tam's attention, then gestured at the upturned boat, not trusting his voice to be heard over the wind and rain. Tam nodded and started swimming that way.

Where were the others? Jory, Leon, Jase...

A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the scene, and he caught a glimpse of a pale form in the water beyond where Peatrick and Simon still floated, Peatrick slowly steering the two of them toward the boat. He swam past them, squinting into the darkness... there! Jase, managing to float on his back well enough to keep his head above water, one arm crooked oddly over his chest while he paddled with the other. He looked around as Alistair drew close. His face was white and strained.

"Can you swim?" Alistair shouted.

Jase shook his head. "Think I broke my arm when we went over. And something's wrong with one leg, too. You'll have to tow me."

Alistair nodded, swimming around to where he could take hold of Jase's hand, and begin swimming back towards the boat, Jase floating along behind him.

The winds were dying down, the rain starting to slacken off. The hail had ended at some point since they'd capsized. He could hear Jase chanting as he dragged him through the water, the words just barely audible, oddly spaced by the difficulty of breathing between waves.

"For there... is no darkness... nor... death either, in... the Maker's Light. And... nothing... that He has... wrought... shall be lost..."

It sent a chill down Alistair's spine; those were the words most commonly spoken at funerals. He supposed they were the easiest for Jase to remember. Especially when they _were_ so lost.

They were almost back to the boat when Jase abruptly broke off. "Alistair... there's something in the water with us," he called quietly, voice hoarse with fear.

Alistair felt every hair on his head straining upwards as he felt it too... a pressure and turbulence in the water as something _big_ passed near them. Grimly, he kicked harder, swimming for the boat as quickly as he could. The light was poor, but he could see the others already there, clinging to the hull – not just Peatrick, Simon and Tam, but someone else as well – Jory, by the size of him.

Jase gave a strangled cry, suddenly jerking back and to one side, hand tightening convulsively on Alistair's. For a moment he was dragged along, helplessly. He had only the briefest glimpse of what had Jase, of massive jaws locked around Jase's waist with crushing force. Streaming along in the water beside it, he found himself staring directly into a dark eye as big as his own head, set in a vast smooth curve of dark silvery grey skin, felt the effortless power with which it sliced through the water. Jase's hand slackened and released his as the creature's head sank beneath the waves, its immensely long body following in a long slow curve as it turned for bottom. He floated there, staring wild-eyed at the wall of flesh curving past him in a seemingly never-ending stream. Longer then the boat – longer then _three_ boats - far longer. Maybe even as long as the castle bridge.

And then it was gone, and Jase with it.

He forced himself back into motion, swam over to the boat, shaking with exhaustion and terror.

"What _was_ that!" Tam asked, his voice awed and frightened.

Peatrick answered shakily. "I'm not sure... might have been what the fisher's call a silver eel."

"It wasn't scaled," Alistair said, his own voice shaking.

"They aren't. Smooth blubbery skin, kind of like a dolphin, but eel-shaped."

"Yeah, that sounds like it," Alistair agreed, thinking back to what little he'd seen.

"Will it be back? Are there more?" Jory asked, sounding scared.

"No idea," Alistair said when it became clear that Peatrick had no answer for that, then looked around. "Anyone seen Leon?"

"Not since the boat went over," Tam said quietly. "He might be alive out there somewhere – he knows how to swim."

Alistair nodded tiredly. "How's Simon doing?" he asked.

"He's still breathing," Peatrick replied. "Other then that..." he voice trailed off. "He needs a healer."

"Right. Well, let's just concentrate on making it through the night, first."

* * *

Teagan started awake at a touch on his shoulder. He found the fisherman's wife – Annie, that was it – bending over him, a fresh cup of tea in hand. "Storm's slacking off," she told him quietly.

He nodded as he sat up, accepting the offered tea. "Good. Thank you, Annie."

She smiled slightly, still looking worried, but obviously pleased that he'd remembered her name, then hurried back to her kitchen to organize breakfast for everyone.

It was still overcast, with just enough pre-dawn light to see by, everything leeched of colour, when they set out. The two biggest boats – small ships, really – were to split up, one following the shore westwards in case the boys had stuck close to land, the other to head first for the rocky islets to the northwest and then wherever else seemed likely after that. Smaller boats were setting out to check the eastward shore, and the sand spit in back of the castle island, as well as a few other likely destinations.

Teagan elected to join the men on the boat heading for the islets. He knew he wouldn't be of any real help – if anything, he was likely to be a hindrance, if he went and got underfoot of the men who actually knew what they were doing – but he couldn't imagine just staying back and waiting on shore for word of the fate of the boys.

* * *

Alistair frowned, wondering what had roused him from his half-drowse. Then he felt it, as much as heard it, a shiver and lurch of the boat's hull, and a grating sound, as much felt as heard.

"What was that?" Tam asked worriedly.

"Dunno," Peatrick answered tiredly.

It happened again. By now they were all – apart from Simon – fully awake and looking around in concern.

"I think the end of the mast is scraping bottom," Alistair said when it happened a third time. Hoping it was only bottom and not something worse. "We might have reached one of those shallows Simon talked about."

"End of the mast is not exactly what I'd call _shallow_ ," Peatrick said dryly.

Alistair snorted. "It's _shallower_ , at least."

The next time the grating contact happened, it didn't stop; they could feel the near-continuous shivering as the tip grated along bottom, before it dug in enough to stop, jerking into motion again a minute later. After a few minutes of that, Alistair noticed the boat hull had started to heel a little to one side. It took him some thought to figure out what must be causing that; the surface wind and waves still pushing the boat steadily in one direction – north, he guessed – while the tip of the mast dragged along the increasingly shallow bottom, resisting the push and gradually levering the boat to the side.

As the boat heeled ever further over, a trickle of bubbles escaped from underneath it. The hull settled a little deeper in the water. Alistair frowned. _That_ wasn't good...

"We may have to abandon the boat," he said, keeping his voice as calm as he could. "I think if it tilts too far it's going to lose the air that's trapped inside the hull. I'm... not sure if it'll still float after that, or sink."

That met with silence from all of them.

"I'm going to try to get up on the hull and look around," Alistair said.

Jory nodded and moved closer. "Here, you can use me as a ladder," he said, holding on tightly to the hull.

Alistair nodded, and scrambled up his shoulders, out of the water, onto the upturned curve of the hull. He crouched there a moment, until he was sure he had his balance, then rose to his feet and looked around. Nothing to the northwest or north, but to the northeast... It was close to dawn; as the light improved he became certain. It didn't look like dry land, but it was _something_...

He crouched down, looking back at the others still hanging on in the water. "That way," he pointed. "We'll have to swim it, the waves are pushing us past something that's over that way. I'm not sure what it is – an island or a shallows of some kind."

They all exchanged uneasy looks. The mast tip grated again, and Alistair almost fell off into the water again as the sudden jerk threw him belly-down on the hull. More bubbles trickled out from underneath, the hull settling even lower.

"Better shallows then a sinking boat," Peatrick said decisively. "Tell me if I start swimming the wrong way, I can't look where I'm going," he said, and pushed off the hull, swimming backwards in the direction Alistair had indicated, Simon still held to his chest. Tam and Jory barely hesitated before starting after him.

Alistair watched them go, then rose to a crouch and scooted along to the easternmot end of the hull to dive into the water and follow them. He didn't tell them what he'd glimpsed in the murky dawn-lit waters under them after he'd been thrown down on his stomach; Leon's body, tangled in the rigging partway down the slanting mast, long drowned.

What he'd spotted proved to be a small island of rock and mucky sand, lying so low to the surface that much of it was currently awash under wind-driven waves, but refreshingly _solid_ underfoot after a night spent clinging to an overturned boat. They were all plastered from head to toe with muck by the time they reached the rocky above-water bit of it.

They were also all hungry and exhausted, badly in need of real sleep after their exertions.

"We need to have people stay awake in turns," Alistair mumbled out. "Keep watch for boats."

Silence met his statement; he peered blurrily around and saw that Tad, Jory and Peatrick were already all fast asleep. Tiredly he rose to his feet, began pacing around to keep himself from falling asleep

* * *

One of the fishermen was sure he'd found signs that the boys may have been at the islets – scrape marks where a boat had been pulled up on one, temporarily beached, presumably while the boy had played in the surrounding shallows. Others shook their heads, dismissing the marks - no way of telling how fresh they were, or who had left them. Still, they admitted it was at least possible that the marks had been left the day before.

They decided to head back eastward after that. The shore swung hard north not far westwards from Redcliffe, so if the boys had gone that way, the other ship would likely find them.

Hours passed without any further sign of the missing; they were beginning to discuss turning back to find out if any of the small boats had had any better luck, when one of the men suddenly cried out and pointed off to the north. A tiny figure was just barely visible, waving frantically at them, joined shortly by a second figure, then more.

As they drew closer they could make out a low swell of rocky land, just barely above surface, and the cluster of waiting boys.

"I only see four," someone said after a moment, voice hushed.

"Five, look, there's someone lying down, too," someone else corrected.

Teagan's heart plummeted. Five boys... and they'd been looking for seven.

The water was too shallow for the ship to get in close, but they had a second, smaller boat, a lightweight coracle of hide-covered wood, that they lowered over the side, a couple of men rowing it over and back to ferry the boys to the ship.

Teagan felt a surge of relief when he spotted the smallest of them; naked, plastered with stinking mud, and only identifiable by his muck-daubed shock of blond hair as Alistair.

* * *

"You'd have been proud of him, Eamon," Teagan told his brother, wearily accepting a second glass of brandy. "So tired he was almost falling down, but he wouldn't rest until he was sure the other four were looked after, and that he'd told us what had happened to the missing pair. Poor boys – they've had a pretty thoroughly nasty experience."

Eamon nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, lucky indeed," he agreed. "I suppose it could have been a lot worse."

"It still may be – that Simon boy is in a pretty bad way. The healer has done what he could; says it's up to the Maker now whether or not he'll live."

"Will you be staying on?" Eamon asked, half-hopefully. "It sounds like you're pretty tired out as well."

"No, this business up north won't wait; I'll stay the night, but I need to set out first thing tomorrow."

"A pity," Eamon said. "Perhaps you can stop in on your way back for a longer visit?"

Teagan smiled. "Hopefully. It'll be a few weeks; after visiting Highever I'm thinking of heading east to look into an investment opportunity in Ameranthine, and then going south to Denerim, before coming back this way."

Eamon nodded. "Well, you know you're always welcome here. And of course you're welcome to make use of my estate while you're in Denerim."

"Thank you. I may well do that; the rooms there are much more comfortable then those at the Gnawed Noble."

Eamon smiled. "I'll send word to my steward there to expect you, then. Now, are you feeling up to that game of chess we didn't have last night, or do you feel the need to retire already?"

Teagan smiled warmly at him. "I think I can last one game, though I can't guarantee that I'll be up to my usual standard of play."

"Good, all the more chance that I'll be able to beat you, then," Eamon said contentedly, already moving to take his seat at the table.

* * *

Eamon glanced up from his desk as the boy Alistair was led in, nodded in acknowledgement to the Seneschal, who bowed and discretely withdrew. He returned his attention to the correspondence in front of him, finishing the letter he was writing and carefully sanding it and putting it to one side before finally turning his attention on the nervous young boy.

"Sit," he said, pointing at a straight-backed wooden chair before his desk.

"Yes, sir," Alistair said nervously, and perched on the very edge of the chair, back bolt upright, hands clasped together in his lap.

"I wanted to talk to you about your recent... little adventure," Eamon said, voice heavy with disapproval. "The stable master has mentioned to me that you were most likely the leader of that ill-fated group."

"Yes, sir," Alistair said quietly, looking down and flushing.

Eamon frowned. "You remember that when I told you of your parentage, I cautioned you that this changed nothing; that you're common-born, and are not to give yourself airs or put yourself forward because of it."

Alistair looked up, eyes going wide. "I didn't! I wasn't..."

"Alistair," Eamon said warningly, frowning in disapproval as he cut off whatever excuses the boy might have been trying to make. "You disobeyed my instructions. I am profoundly disappointed in you, especially since your ill-advised leadership led to the deaths of several other boys. Perhaps now you'll listen to me when I tell you that you have no aptitude for leadership. I am willing to forgive you – _this_ time – as I feel the deaths of your young comrades should give you sufficient pause to prevent a recurrence of this... aberration on your part. But any future efforts of you to take a position of leadership to which you are not entitled by birth or training will cause me the most severe displeasure. Do I make myself clear?"

During his speech the boy had shrunk in his chair, hunching up with shoulders and back rounded, head lowered. "Yes, sir," Alistair choked out, flushing with shame.

"Good. Now get out of my sight."

Alistair nodded. "Yes, sir," he said softly, and rose to his feet. He bowed, as was proper, and turned away.

He had almost reached the door when Eamon thought of something else. "One other thing," he called.

Alistair looked back questioningly. "Yes, sir?"

"You may go down to the village tomorrow to attend the funeral of young Simon, but after that you are confined to the castle grounds until further notice."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Alistair said, bowed again, and slipped out of the room.

Drat the child, Eamon thought as he returned to his correspondence. He'd have to think of something to do with him to make sure he stayed out of mischief. Perhaps Isolde's suggestion that the boy should be sent away had some merit after all. He'd have to think on it.

* * *

" _What? Lead? Me? No, no, no. No leading. Bad things happen when I lead. We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know I'm stranded somewhere without any pants."_

 _\- Alistair_


End file.
